from his mind. He too
had been ranging the hills since early morning searching for the boy,
but so fierce was his rage that he could have jumped upon the little
form and trampled its life out, if by so doing he could have killed
Mead with a double death.

Antone's wrists were stiff and his arms had not recovered their full
strength, so that Mead had no difficulty in holding the dagger aloft.
He waited a moment to see if some glimmer of human feeling would not
strike through the man's rage. Suddenly Antone began kicking his
shins, and Mead understood that the sooner the struggle began the
sooner it would be ended. He strove warily, with the coolness of a
masterful determination, with a quick eye, a quick hand, and a quick
brain. The Mexican fought with the insensate rage of an angered beast.
They struggled first for the possession of the knife. Antone succeeded
in releasing his wrist and sprang backward out of Mead's reach. With a
lunge straight at his enemy's heart he came forward again, but Mead
sprang quickly to one side and the Mexican barely saved himself from
sprawling headlong on the ground. He faced about, his features
distorted with anger, and, as he dashed forward, Mead caught his wrist
again. There was a short, sharp struggle, and Mead sent the knife
whirling down the hillside.

Then they closed in a hand to hand struggle. Antone bent his head and
sent his teeth deep into Mead's arm. Into the flesh they sank and met
and with a slipping sound tore the solid muscle from its bed. Then
there flamed in Emerson Mead's heart that wild, white rage that
mettles the nerves and steels the muscles of him who suffers that
indignity. He felt the strength of a giant in his arms as he gripped
the Mexican by both shoulders. In another minute Antone Colorow was
flat upon the ground and Emerson Mead was sitting on his chest.

"You hound!" Mead exclaimed, "I ought to kill you, and by the living
God, I would if I could do it decently! But I'm no Greaser, to use
lariats and knives and boot-heels, and so you get off this time, you
beast! If I had a rope," he went on, "I'd tie you here!"

With his right hand he grasped Antone's two wrists while he thrust his
left into his pockets in search of something with which he could bind
the fallen man. From the side pocket of his coat he drew a shiny,
snaky black thing, and a satisfied "ah!" broke from his lips as he saw
the Chinaman's queue, which Nick Ellhorn had forgotten, and which he